


Inhuman, Monstrous

by LouPF



Category: Kaptein Sabeltann | Captain Sabertooth - Formoe
Genre: Angst, Gen, non-human Sabeltann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: Sabeltann hasn't been human in a while.It hurts to think about.





	Inhuman, Monstrous

Sabeltann doesn’t know what he is.

He was human once, and he remembers that, though not clearly. He hadn’t felt _weak_ , before he changed - he’d felt strong and confident, invulnerable in the way many humans do. Thinking back, though, he remembers the sensation of his skin, drawn thin over brittle bones, tender and easy to bruise, no matter how calloused his palms, no matter how jaded his feet.

And he hadn’t been weak.

But he’s stronger, now - skin thicker and sickly pale, bones heavy, hair thick and blade-resistant. His hearing is sharper, his vision clearer - his senses, not heightened, but _warped._

In the beginning - those first few months - he’d spent a lot of time underwater, exploring and getting used to the new him. He hadn’t thought much about what he was, just that he enjoyed it - that it was the pinnacle of his life, the best thing to ever happen to him.

The clipper that broke the chains.

Whatever he was, it wasn’t _human._

Sometimes he still feels human, kind of, to a certain degree. Whenever the sun cradles his face just so, or his heels click against cobblestone framed by the chatter of the village, or the cold smell of winter settles in.

But then he returns to the castle and lies in bed, empty and alone and hollowed out, staring at the ceiling as he trails still hands down his sides, counting his ribs, and they’re too many on one side and too few on the other. He shifts, and they ripple beneath his skin, and then they’re just the same amount on both sides.

He doesn’t feel like a human, then. He doesn’t feel like a human most of the time, actually. On a good day, he’s _inhuman._

On a bad day, he’s _monstrous._

It’s not like he can say he’s any specific kind of mer-fish, either - he’s never seen any fish quite like him, with the golden discs or the blue-ish hue or the elongated, sensitive ears. He’s not alone, not really, not when the ocean rocks and cradles him like a mother caring for a child - but.

He’s not human.

He doesn’t know what he is.

Whenever someone asks, and they do ask, they always ask, he ignores the sting of pain and declares proudly, _chosen by the sea._

It’s the only certain thing anymore.

He doesn’t feel at home, masquerading in a culture that isn’t his with people that aren’t his and humans that aren’t like him. He might somewhat look the same, or look similar enough for them to not care, but he sticks out like a sore thumb nonetheless.

There’s some kind of guilt, jammed in there, in-between pain and sorrow and longing. Guilt for being here, for not fitting in, for whatever else insane reason the hormones in his mind has concocted.

Sabeltann doesn’t know what he is.

He leans forward onto the railings of his balcony, elbows bare against the cold stone, and his hair falls forward into the darkness.

No, he’s not human.

He isn’t okay with it.

But, he thinks, and tilts his head upwards, towards the stars, _it could be worse._


End file.
